


one last hurrah

by skogr



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4783328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard is tying up some loose ends before turning herself in to the Alliance after the events at Aratoht, but Cerberus has one last surprise up their sleeve. Everyone wants something more of Shepard, and Garrus - well, he wants more than most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Splitting this up into two parts as it was getting a bit unwieldy.

The rhythm of life on the Normandy doesn't allow for mornings, there are just shifts and different shifts, on duty and off duty, all against the same backdrop of the inky blackness of space and the ever-changing stars. It's been a long time since Garrus had a true morning, the hazy Palaven sunrise replaced by the constant glow of the Presidium, the croaking cryllus song replaced by the hum of Omega's traffic.

What marks his mornings now is the soft click of Shepard's coffee machine, the pleased noise she makes as she stretches her arms above her head, legs tangled in the sheets. Her shoulder cracks with an alarming sound, but her smile only grows a notch more satisfied. If a turian made that noise, it would mean something had gone horribly wrong, so it must be a human thing. Maybe just a Shepard thing.

The coffee smells sharp to him, acrid but earthy, and like Shepard. It tastes sweet by the time she's done with it, he knows this from the times she presses a careless kiss to his mouth on her way to the shower. She doesn't always: sometimes she stops to frown at a datapad, or peer curiously in at her fish. She always cracks her shoulder. She always takes a shower, approximately six minutes long, though he's usually gone by then. She always drinks her coffee the same way, quickly at first, then absently taking smaller sips until she abandons it altogether. She always leaves an inch at the bottom of the mug. He can't see any particular reason for this wastefulness.

It's strange, being privy to these habits of hers. It's stranger how easily he slots in amongst them.

She rolls over to face him with a lazy smile, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear. There's a crease across her cheek from where a seam on her pillowcase has left a faint imprint in her pliable human skin.  

"Morning sunshine," she says, voice teasing and warm enough to chase away the last lingering doubts that he'd once again overstayed his welcome. It's not the morning; it's the thirteenth hour of Galactic Standard Time, which is what the Normandy runs on for sake of simplicity. It's their morning, all the same.

"You snore," he tells her.

"Do not."

"Do so. Like a krogan."

She grins and stretches her limbs out again with a drowsy grace that fascinates him. He'd thought humans were soft, but that's not quite right. They're not hard, either; it's the juxtaposition that he's come to find so intriguing, the way her breasts are framed by the angles of her collarbones and ribs, the gentle slope of her stomach and thighs broken by the jut of her hips. She catches him watching and grins even wider, stretch becoming even more drawn out and languid.

She's relaxed, or close enough, the lines of her body fluid and soft. This is the norm for her now, and has been ever since the Omega relay, an ease to the way she moves that just wasn't there before. She carries herself lighter with the weight of the Collectors lifted from her shoulders. Of course, it's possible he just never saw her relaxed before then - for all the familiarity of their morning routine, this is still new - but he's fairly sure that isn't the case. She'd been coiled like a spring since he first saw her down his scope on Omega.

This is Shepard like he's never seen her, in more ways than one.

There's still a kind of tension running through her, but it's less like a charge set to blow and more like a loaded gun. Purposeful and measured. That edge crept back in after Aratoht, the carefree look in her eyes tempered by the promise she made to Hackett. A promise he hopes she doesn't cash in, but she's Shepard. She will. Now, she's waiting for something, though he doesn't know what. She'll tell him when it's time.

"Speaking of krogan," she says, propping herself up by an elbow, "Wrex has some loose ends he wants us to tie up. You game?"

"Always." Garrus mirrors her as best he can, resting his weight on his own elbows. "Reckon we could persuade him to come along?"

"Tell him he's getting old," she says, eyes lighting up. "That always gets him."

"From me, especially?"

"Well, yeah." She flashes a grin at him, hair falling across her eyes again. He resists the urge to brush it away.

Wrex and he are friends now, or at least comfortable enough to toy with the possibility, good-natured rivalry notwithstanding. They could've been from the beginning, but they weren't. That one's on Garrus.

The coffee machine lets out one final chirp, and Shepard sighs. He can't work out if it's relief or displeasure; coffee is a human mystery with no real turian equivalent. They'd just take stims. Coffee hovers somewhere between pleasure and business and he's never quite sure which side it lands on. But then, that's a distinction he's having trouble with lately.

She stretches one last time, arches her back and spreads her toes, and pushes herself out of bed.

Garrus just watches as she pulls a shirt over her head and crosses to the coffee machine, mourning the loss of the moment a little. He doesn't move straight away, wincing a little at the stiffness in his limbs. Human beds don't fully agree with him, but he'd rather bite his tongue off than admit it to Shepard. It feels too fragile, somehow, to risk it disrupting the balance of their arrangement. Everyone wants more of Shepard, and he - well, he wants more than most.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and grins at his feet as he hears the familiar hiss of pain as she tries to drink the too hot coffee. Every time.

"Set the temperature lower," he says, amused, as she shuffles over to the couch and sits with her legs tucked underneath her. Another human oddity he couldn't possibly try to replicate.

She gives him a belligerent look. "It's not as good."

This is the part where he gets dressed, slowly and reluctantly as she finishes her drink, they shoot the shit a little, and he leaves when she gets in the shower. Sometimes she kisses him. Not that he's keeping a running tally in his head, or anything.

It goes like this almost without fail, because even without the Collectors, there's always something to do, somewhere to be. On the rare occasion there isn't, they savor their mornings a little longer. The coffee machine can beep all it wants, but Garrus has her full attention.

Not that he's resentful of an appliance. Just everything it stands for.

He starts to pull his clothes on, feeling her watching him. He's not as inclined to make a show of it as she is, still trying to puzzle through just what it is she sees when she looks at him. Her hands are wrapped around the mug as she blows across the surface of the coffee, still steaming and far too hot for human consumption. He really doesn't understand why she doesn't turn the temperature down.

"Why isn't turian fashion all about huge collars?" She raises an eyebrow at him. "With your cowls, I mean."

"It was." Garrus smoothes down the front of his top with an amused noise. "About fifty years ago. Along with flared trousers."

She blinks at him. "You're messing with me."

"Nope." He spreads his hands. "A dark time in my people's history."

A delighted smile creeps across her face. "Saturday Night Fever, turian style."

"Excuse me?"

"Look it up sometime." She laughs quietly into her mug, and he thinks about sitting down next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and dragging the morning out as far as he can. Wrex can wait.

But that's not how it goes.

What he does do is walk over to the fish tank, watching them skitter back and forth. Another Cerberus addition she's taken to with enthusiasm, though perhaps less successfully than the coffee machine. He pushes the button to release a portion of food; he saw her feed them the day before last, but not since. He hasn’t done this before, and for a brief moment, he’s almost embarrassed at his presumption.

He turns to find her looking at him over her coffee, unsuccessfully fighting a smile.

"What?"

"Nothing." She's still smiling.

" _Someone_ has to feed them."

She untucks her legs - it still looks painful to him - and crosses to stand in front of him, mug balanced in one hand. The other reaches up to cup the side of his face as she grins up at him. So, it's one of those mornings.

"Thank you," she says, teasing and solemn all at once.

As she kisses him, rocking up onto her tiptoes, he trails a hand down her back, feeling every jut of her spine. Her mornings kisses are always fond though never lingering, but this one is unhurried enough as to be noteworthy. Things are shifting. The mug ends up caught between them pressing awkwardly into his waist, and - yeah, maybe he does resent the damn coffee sometimes. Just a little.

She pulls away eventually. "I'm gonna shower." He plucks the mug from her grasp, and she presses a final brief kiss to his mouth. Wishful thinking perhaps, but he feels a reluctance to the way her hand trails down his neck. "Ready in thirty?"

"Sounds good."

She pads across to the bathroom and he watches her disappear behind the door, the familiarity of it leaving something warm behind, like the handle of the mug he holds in his hands. Inside, a perfect inch of cold coffee, as always.

 

-

 

Maybe if he hadn't been so caught up in the sleepy haze of the morning he would've wondered at the vagueness of Wrex's 'loose ends', but as it is, he doesn't think to regard it suspiciously. Even if he had, he probably wouldn't have expected to be wading knee deep through sewage looking for a krogan runaway.

"This is just a bad dream," Tali says weakly, "this isn't really happening. I can't really be in a krogan sewer -"

"Waste transportation pipe," Shepard says, in the tone of someone who really doesn't believe what they're saying. "That's what Wrex called it. Waste doesn't mean sewage, not necessarily. It could be, uh, any number of things."

Tali picks her way forward with delicately horrified footsteps. "Shepard, it's definitely a sewer."

Shepard taps the side of her visor. "Wrex, anything your end?"

"Nothing, Shepard. You find anything yet?"

"Nope." She casts a wary eye at the thick liquid swirling around her calves. "Hey, Wrex? Please tell me this isn't a sewer."

There's an amused chuckle down the comm line.

" _Wrex_?"

"I hate to break it to you," Garrus says, "but as the species with the superior sense of smell, that's _definitely_ sewage."

Tali groans and Shepard stops dead for a moment, the bobbing torchlight from her rifle coming to rest on a particularly nasty looking patch of fluid."You know what?" She says, "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." She starts to stride forward again with a renewed determination. "This isn't a sewer."

"You keep telling yourself that," Garrus says, "whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Wouldn't be my first choice," she says, sending him a sideways look that's all heat, sharp and mischievous. He grins.

"And I'm going to pretend _you_ didn't just say  _that_ ," Tali says wearily.

Shepard's eyes go wide and innocent. "What? I like a nightcap."

There's a sudden rumble up ahead, and Shepard throws an arm out instinctively in front of them. It's distinctly animal, almost a growl.

" _Keelah_."

"Based on what I've seen of Tuchanka's fauna and flora," Shepard says, switching her torch off. "I say we don't disturb whatever has the balls to live down here."

"Agreed."

They edge forward in silence for a few hundred feet, the only noise the sloshing of the water and Tali's barely audible sounds of distress.

"Wrex," Shepard mutters down the comm, "we've reached the fork, but sounds like we have company."

"Take the left. It gets too small for them to get through."

"For _what_ to get through?"

Another of those enigmatic chuckles. "You really wanna know, Shepard?"

She considers it. "You know what? I really don't."

Garrus tightens the grip on his rifle. "This just gets better and better."

"Doesn't it just? We'd better find that kid soon." Shepard flicks the torch back on as the passageway starts to narrow. "Check the alcoves as we go past."

And this is Wrex's loose end: not mercs or a rival clan or a thresher maw, but a lost krogan who slipped out from underneath the watchful eye of her carers. Young, from the way they're talking, younger than they choose to admit, from the way the entirety of Urdnot was distinctly ill at ease.

The rumbling fades and they're down to mechanically combing either side of the sewer where the walls open up into smaller pipes and sheltered nooks. They're dry, Garrus notes, which suggests the stuff they're wading through hasn't arrived all that recently. He decides not to voice that thought, for the good of team morale.

"Shepard?" Tali's voice rings out from a little further ahead, illuminated by the glow of her omnitool. "I'm picking up something. Two heartbeats."

"Here's hoping they have one owner," Shepard mutters, and Garrus follows her along the tunnel to where Tali is peering in a dark alcove.

"I think I see her."

Garrus crouches down to get a better view and catches a flash of something small and mottled, a quiet squeak echoing in the pipe. As Shepard angles her torch into the darkness he reaches out a hand, only to retract it hurriedly.

"She bit me!'

Shepard chuckles as he inspects his fingers, skin unbroken but armor definitely compromised. Damn, her teeth are sharp for such a tiny thing. He glares back into the tube and a pair of yellow eyes meet his, wary and defensive. He softens a little, and extends his arm again. "Hey, I'm not going to hurt you." His fingers once again make a hasty retreat.

"Wrex," Shepard says, fighting laughter, "we got her." She casts another look at Garrus nursing his fingers. "She really doesn't like the look of Garrus, though."

Wrex's answering laughter rumbles with relief. "No one does, Shepard."

Her mouth curls up in a lopsided grin as she crouches down next to him, torch lowered. "Jury's out," she says, and bumps her shoulder gently against his. "Budge over."

"With pleasure."

She doesn't reach into the alcove, just rests her elbows on her thighs and squints into the tunnel, torch illuminating the entrance but not much more. The yellow eyes gleam back at her, but without the flash of teeth Garrus got for his trouble.

After a few long moments, she lowers the torch. "You hungry?" She doesn't wait for a reply, producing a ration bar with an enticing rustle. There's a quiet grunt from inside the pipe, and Shepard grins. "You've been down here a while without anything to eat, huh?"

She unwraps one end carefully and holds it out, not so far in that the krogan can grab it without emerging. There's a distressed noise from inside the tunnel. "Hey, come on. Let me see you."

Garrus is rather reminded of the times he's found her sprawled on the floor with her head under various pieces of furniture, coaxing the hamster out from his latest hiding place. Damn thing bit him too.

Half the bar is snatched away, and they catch a glimpse of a tiny, chubby krogan in perfect miniature. Shepard looks utterly charmed, because of _course_ she does - she was charmed by Grunt when he emerged fully grown and murderous and ready to smash her against the walls of the cargo hold - of course she's delighted by a tiny, violent krogan.

"Wrex," she says, "what's her name?"

"Doesn't have one, she's not old enough. How's she doing?"

The almost tender concern in Wrex's voice is at odds with the throbbing in Garrus' fingers.

"She bit me," he informs him, and Wrex cackles as Shepard shakes her head.

"Good kid, always did like her."

The krogan has edged closer to the opening of the pipe, eyeing the rest of the rations bar hungrily. Shepard grins at her and take a bite, chewing slowly and loudly, and the krogan growls.

"Sorry, did you want this? Guess you'll have to come out and get it." She opens her mouth theatrically, as if about to take another bite.

Figures Shepard would be good with the tiny bundle of violent alien. She can talk anyone down from anything, including - apparently - a tiny, hungry krogan from inside a sewage pipe.

That does it: the krogan sticks her head out the pipe with a steady stream of disgruntled grumbling noises, and Shepard scoops her up, allowing the ration bar to be snatched away.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Tali laughs softly, evidently just as charmed. By the grizzling baby krogan or by Shepard, it's hard to say.

"I think we're probably the first people in centuries to see a krogan this young," she says in a hushed voice, moving closer. "I never thought they'd be so - well, so _cute_."

"She bit me," Garrus repeats. Tali snorts, but hurriedly pulls back the inquisitive hand she'd been extending, muttering something about suit punctures and unnecessary risk taking.

The krogan, finished now with the bar, wriggles in Shepard's grasp, clearly looking for more.

"Sorry, buddy. That's all I got." She shifts her from one arm to the other. " _God_ , you're heavy. Okay, Wrex, where're we going?"

"Keep heading south, there's an entrance a few clicks along. We'll meet you on the surface."

The krogan starts to gnaw on the shoulder piece of Shepard's armor, leaving unmistakable tooth marks in the red and white stripes.

"Commander Shepard," Garrus drawls, "savior of the galaxy, scourge of the Collectors... and krogan chew toy."

She just grins at him.

 

There’s something that unfurls sometimes when he looks at her, something bright and sharp that he doesn’t let himself look directly at, like sunlight. He’s wary of it even as it warms him through, lets it a linger a little longer each time even as he shies away from it. Sometimes it’s when everything is soft and warm, the moments when he supposes you’re meant to feel something, and sometimes it’s when she’s knee deep in krogan sewage with an armful of dangerous alien and armed to the teeth.

Figures.

 

-

 

They finally stumble into the sunlight, breathing deep and squinting into the sun, and Tuchanka may be a nuclear wasteland but for a moment, it’s nothing less than heavenly. There’s a mild breeze, the late afternoon air turning cool and acrid, but they gasp it in anyway.

“If my suit is compromised,” Tali says with the sort of detached disgust she’s been carefully cultivating over the past few hours, “I’ll shoot Wrex myself.”

“Sounds fair.”

They travel the last part of the journey blissfully above ground, the Tuchanka dust whipping around them and settling on their wet armor in the grooves and seams. At least it goes some way towards masking the smell, even if it’ll be a pain in the ass to clean.

As they approach the Urdnot camp proper, there’s a distinct hush that ripples through the the krogan as they pass, the child in Shepard’s arms the focus of many turned heads and hushed whispers. For once, it's not Shepard garnering the attention.

Wrex and his team have already arrived, and Garrus is partially mollified to see their feet covered in the same unpleasant stuff as his, giving off the same pungent stink.

Shepard hands the baby krogan over to him gingerly; she'd fallen asleep sometime on the journey. Wrex grins, giving the kid a quick once over before passing her to another krogan behind him. A stillness settles over the camp as she's handed carefully from elder to elder, gently examined by each one. They murmur softly amongst themselves, relief and gratitude palpable, and meet Shepard's eyes one by one with silent, solemn nods. She nods back, but moves to stand beside Garrus, close enough to bump elbows in a would-be careless way. She's touched by the moment, he can tell, and he's not immune to it himself. He wonders how many people have seen this side to the krogan, how many would be surprised by the tender way they handle her. If she has parents, it's hard to tell who they are specifically. Perhaps their young are scarce enough that parenthood in the way he understands it no longer applies.

"Thanks, Shepard," Wrex says, and there's a general rumble of agreement. "I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Wrex."

The krogan has made her way back to him, and he tucks her under one arm in a practiced motion.

"She's our youngest," he says, "only kid we've got under five."

Shepard lets out a low whistle. "Wow."

"We don't usually let outsiders see them." Wrex's eyes narrow as they slide to Tali and Garrus, but he follows up with a grin. "Guess it's your lucky day."

"Just glad I could help."

The tiny krogan makes a sound Garrus can only guess is happy, and wriggles in Wrex's grasp. "You're a good friend to the krogan, Shepard. I won't forget this."

There's a brief moment when something like grief passes over her face, but it's replaced by a smile before it can really take root. "Me neither," she says, quietly enough that only Garrus catches it.

The krogan disperse after that, the baby whisked away and fussed over, and Wrex lumbers across to them with a familiar curl to his lips.

"Somewhere to be, I take it?"

"Something like that." Shepard takes the hand he offers and grins at him. "Try not to lose any more of your kids."

"Ha! Easier said than done, Shepard." Wrex regards her with an amused expression. "Been good to see you and Tali, just like old times, huh?"

Garrus coughs pointedly.

"And your boyfriend," Wrex says, a mischievous edge to his voice. "Don't know what you see in the pointy bastard, but I've got to admire the poetic justice."

They're discreet, insomuch as you can be on-board a ship where everyone's business is automatically everyone else's. Tali would presumably argue that point, but Garrus doesn't think she realizes how relaxed Shepard is around her. Even to anyone else, it's still not a secret, but to have their... _whatever it is_ acknowledged outside the bubble of the Normandy is strange. Even by Wrex.

 _Boyfriend._ Interesting.

Shepard folds her arms, expression inscrutable. "'Poetic justice?'"

"Your governments have been trying to screw each other over for years," Wrex says, "you've finally managed what the politicians couldn't."

Garrus casts a sideways look at Shepard to see her shaking her head with an embarrassed grin. It's all the encouragement he needs.

"What can I say," he says with a shrug, "I'm a peacemaker."

Wrex laughs, loud and booming, but it's Shepard's soft chuckle he listens for.

 

-

 

Shepard's quiet in the shuttle, sat down with her eyes shut and head leaning back against the metal interior. There's a fine line between relaxation and exhaustion and Shepard’s been running it most of her adult life. He always knew this, but now he _knows_ , sees it firsthand. They both stink, and the shuttle stinks, and his nostrils have forgotten how to smell anything other than krogan sewage, but he sits next to her, knees brushing.

"Hey, Garrus," she says, without opening her eyes, "that facility on Virmire -"

"No," he says immediately, "don't even go there, Shepard. We didn't have a choice."

She sighs. "Yeah. Just - " She rubs her forehead. "Yeah."

Again, it could just be that he missed it, or that she never let him see it, but he doesn't remember things ever weighing this heavily on her before. The Shepard of three years ago made her decisions and never looked back, not really. Perhaps that's what she wanted him to think, perhaps it's what he needed. Someone to look him on the eye and tell him the right way is never easy, but always worth trying. Someone who never seemed to struggle with the choices she had to make.

Shepard has always been exactly what he needed, even when he didn't really want it. She's exactly what everyone needs at any given moment. A shoulder to cry on, a peacebroker, the voice of reason, and occasionally even a punch to the face.

What he really wants is to be what she needs. She deserves that much.

He nudges her knee. "Hey, Shepard?" She nudges him back to let him know she's listening. "You stink."

"Charming," she mutters, and she doesn't open her eyes but she smiles. "Just charming."

Sometimes he feels like he can be.

 

-

 

Lawson waylays them immediately on their return, her nose wrinkling as she gets close enough to smell them.

He's still not sure if Miranda likes him. They respect each other, sure, but he suspects for all her eminent professionalism, he exasperates her on principle. She's Shepard's XO, literally born for greatness and trained extensively to serve this particular purpose on board the Normandy. She's talented, driven, and has been completely indispensable. Shepard trusts her and values her without reserve, but -

She trusts Garrus more.

The one Cerberus couldn't find - which gives him no small satisfaction - but that they led Shepard straight to nonetheless. They must've been pleased at their own good fortune, Archangel turning out to be the Commander's old friend, another anchor to tie her down and make her compliant. As it turned out, not quite what they might have hoped for. Definitely more than Miranda bargained for.  

It's possible she thinks Shepard's judgment is clouded by the particulars of their evolving partnership, and it's possible she's not entirely wrong. It's also beside the point; he goes where she goes. If she needs him, he's there. That's just how it is.

(Also, he's a better shot than Miranda. That's just a fact. She may be genetically perfect and it's not like she misses, but you can't engineer _style_.)

And when it came down to it, Shepard picked him. Not even a hour after they'd been wrapped up in a clumsy tangle of limbs and sheets and an unspoken tenderness, and she looked across the comm room at him with trust and faith so absolute he almost didn't know what to do with it. In the end, the answer was simple. He accepted it as readily as she gave it, and when the fire squad rejoined Shepard's team, he was surprised to find he'd never really doubted their chance of success. That's why it was him, and not Miranda. They make each other believe.

"There you are, Shepard, I've made headway on locating - what the hell is that stink?"

"It's shit," Shepard says breezily, "literal shit, if you can believe it. God, I need a shower. We've been through decontamination and I can still smell it. What's the lead?"

"Nothing major," Miranda says, evidently still digesting the peculiarities of their trip planetside. "It can wait, I have a few more contacts to track down before we get anything concrete."

"Keep me updated. You headed up?"

"And get in the elevator with the three of you?" Miranda raises an eyebrow. "I'm good."

"I'm going through decontamination again," Tali says wearily, "and then maybe again after that. Maybe one day, I'll even be clean."

They shuffle in without her, Shepard chuckling, and Garrus shoots her a curious look as the doors close.

"What was that about?"

Another strange expression flickers across Shepard's face, but she reigns it in before he's had time to study it properly. Still, he doesn't like it.

"Miranda's tracking down some of Cerberus' dirty laundry for me. Turning into a bit of a wild goose chase."

"What kind of dirty laundry?"

"Honestly? We don't know yet." Shepard looks at him sideways, expression rapidly changing from somber to playful. "I can catch you up later, if you'd like."

He can't contain his grin, though he didn't get the answers he wanted. Later. "Sure, after I'd had a thorough debrief with some strong disinfectant."

"You and me both."

The elevator comes to a stop, and he makes to leave but she touches her fingers to his arm.

"Hey, Garrus? You know my antibacterial soap is your antibacterial soap, right? Or, uh, whatever turians use. I guess I could stock up, if you wanted."

It takes him a moment to work out what she's offering, haltingly extended as it is. Her shower. He's never used it before, never wanted to presume -

"I - yeah." He rubs the back of his neck. "That sounds... I just have to get this armor treated before the -"

She smiles at him, cutting his own fumbling reply short. "It's an open offer, Garrus. No rush."

He's not sure the shower head is even high enough for him to use effectively without hunching over painfully. He does know it won't be hot enough to be considered pleasant by turian standards, no doubt sporting the lukewarm dribble that humans seem to enjoy. He doesn't care.  

He returns the touch, a soft tap to her elbow.

"Maybe later."

"Later," she echoes, and her smile grows brighter.

 

-

 

Shepard’s getting out the shower when he enters the loft - still a little tentative, still worried about overstaying his welcome however often she extends it - and she doesn't seem to notice him for a few moments, wrapped in a towel and smiling absently at the fish as she twists her hair in one hand, still damp. He leans against the wall and watches her with something tight in his chest until she turns to grin at him. He should've figured he hadn't really gone unnoticed.

"You just gonna stand there?"

He taps the side of his nose. "Keeping my distance until you'd washed all the sewage off."

"Oh, that's rich." She runs a hand through her hair with a laugh, sweeping it back over her head into something almost like a crest. Almost turian, but not quite. Once, he would've wondered if that would make it easier, but now he knows he wouldn't have her any other way. "I seem to remember  _you_ being just as covered in krogan crap, maybe  _I_ should keep _my_ distance until I know you've washed -"

He takes the few steps that bring him close enough to wrap one arm around her waist and tangles the other in the damp strands of her hair. He's always wondered what she's like straight from the shower, and it's another unexpected piece of knowledge he tucks away somewhere safe. The answer: warm and damp, with bumps on her skin from where the fine hairs have risen. No surprises there, but it was never curiosity that made him wonder. The victory is in the knowing.

" - or maybe not," she breathes, and frames his face with her hands as she kisses him lightly. She pauses, rubs her thumbs over his mandibles with a small smile. "Today was good."

"We have different definitions of good, clearly."

"Okay, so the locale wasn't great." She grins. "But we got to help a friend out without firing a single shot. That's good in my books."

"Sure." He runs his hands up her arms, pink and warm even by his standards. She must've stayed in more than her customary six minutes. "Boring, but good."

"Oh, I'm sure it won't last long. We'll be back to shooting things before we know it." She sounds flat, a little resigned, but pushes it down like she did in the elevator and levels a smirk at him instead. "So, what's the verdict? Do I still stink of crap?"

He leans in to make a show of inhaling her scent. She just smells like clean human, floral from the soap and faintly metallic, but he can't resist teasing her. "Residual traces, maybe. You must've missed a spot."

"Uh oh." She hooks an arm around his neck. "Guess you'd better retreat to a safe distance."

"Guess I'd better," he says, not moving in the slightest.

She sniffs him back, nose wrinkling. "Did you shower already? I was serious, you know, you can use mine whenever -"

"Yeah, I know. It just didn't seem very romantic to show up covered in sewage."

"Romance, huh?" Shepard smiles up at him, folding her arms. "That what this is?"

"Ouch." Her tone is light and teasing enough that he's not truly hurt, just a little wrongfooted.

She grins and leans back against the fish tank, and he follows, staying close enough to brush his fingertips across her hips.

"Well?" she presses, a little more softly. "Is it?"

"Sure." He buries his face in her hair, his heart somewhere in his throat and beating wildly. "But you _never_ take me anywhere nice."

"Hate to break it to you, Garrus, but if it's a deal breaker, you might have the wrong girl."

"Definitely not," he murmurs somewhere by her ear, and she curls a hand back round his neck, digging her nails in just enough to make his eyes flutter shut. In turn, he grips her hips with a grasp that's fast approaching needy, and for a moment they hit that sweet spot: the unlikely alignment of two vastly different bodies, curved and tucked perfectly around each other.

She pulls back far enough to meet his eyes, her own bright and happy. "Good to know."

Turians do kiss, contrary to human urban legend; they've spent long enough around asari to pick up their affectionate habits, not having a large amount of their own, but between two turians it's more perfunctory than anything. It's a gesture. Add a pair of lips into the equation, however, and it's suddenly something else entirely.

Kissing Shepard feels so personal, the way she has of cradling his head in her hands and smiling against his mouth. More personal than he'd planned for, that first time over a bottle of cheap wine. Sex is one thing, and this was another, and the lines he tried so hard to draw crumbled the moment she touched him.

He could kiss her all day.

“Look,” she grouses, "if you're not here to shower, either move a bit faster or stop teasing me so I can get dressed and write Miranda that report -"

"All you had to do was ask," he tells her, and pushes her back against the tank, towel slipping down to lie in a crumpled pile on the floor. He kicks it to one side.

She makes a disgruntled noise but her expression is satisfied, which is the real clue. "Careful, you'll traumatize the Prejek Paddle Fish."

He snorts. "They've never complained before."

"Well, you know what they say about fish. Five second memory and all that."

He doesn't know what they say about fish, and he doesn't care. He traces her collarbone with his tongue, thumbs rubbing over her hips. He can taste the salt on her skin, chirality differences making the flavor almost sweet to him.

"But I heard that's just a common misconception," she continues, not sounding nearly as distracted as he'd like. "Most fish can actually remember at least four months - "

"Shepard?" He pauses to nip at her shoulder. "Stop talking about fish."

"I'm just saying, these poor bastards are never going to look at us the same way again." She hums absently as he nuzzles into her neck, turning her head to encourage his continued attention. "Besides, I've got the biggest bed on the entire ship and we're here? Something you want to tell me, Vakarian?"

He presses her harder against the glass, and she gasps at the coolness. A good gasp. He knows the difference. "No."

"Judgment free zone." She grins wolfishly. "If you've got a thing for doing it against the glass, far be from me to -"

"It's not a thing," he tells her tartly, but makes no move to relocate.

It’s not a _thing_ , but it really could become one pretty quickly, with the way the light haloes out around her, the faint reflection of her skin on the blue, and the way she splays her hands on the cool glass, pink nails turning white as she presses down -

\- alright, so maybe it _is_ a thing. He’s okay with that. This whole interspecies romance has done nothing if not broaden his horizons.

And doesn't she know it. "Uhuh. Suu-uure."

He holds her hips and mouths at her neck in precisely the way he's learned makes her arch her back and close her eyes, and isn't disappointed. The hand he slips between the tank and her back finds the skin cool and soft from where it had been pressed against the glass.

"Okay," he mutters in her ear, "it's a thing."

"Knew it," she breathes, and that must be when she decides she's done playing coy, the hand not splayed across the glass gripping the back of his neck firmly as she wraps her legs around his waist. It can't be altogether a comfortable arrangement for her, but she doesn't seem to care. He pushes her gently but firmly against the glass, and she's held there steadily enough he can run both hands down her thighs, still placing his awkward turian kisses over her jawline. Not that she seems to mind, but he can't imagine it's anything like the way she leaves open mouthed trails down his neck. Lips. He's definitely a fan of lips.

Right on cue, that's what she does, turning her head and lavishing her attention on his good mandible. He can't stop the pleased flutter, and she laughs as they move under her lips. The wounded one gets a softer, more careful kiss, and the resulting flutter is in turn gentler and more subdued. She gives it an extra kiss for good measure and his useless heart thuds in his chest. Sex is one thing. This is another.

She digs her nails into the back of his neck with a pointed impatience, snapping the mood back from soft to urgent, and he slides a hand up the inside of her thigh. She inhales sharply, and he runs it back down to her knee with just a hint of talon.

"Bastard," he hears, low and murmured, and he grins widely. That's when he knows he has her, when she starts muttering insults. He used to think breathy endearments and fervent whispers of encouragements were the things to aim for, and he used to enjoy achieving them, but they're nothing to the way she hisses _'you're such an asshole'_   into the gap between his neck and cowl.

He nips at her neck and stalls a little longer, just to feel her wriggle indignantly between him and the tank, thumb ghosting over her ribs. After a thorough exploration of her clavicle with his tongue, he decides to indulge her. He pushes her hips back flush against the glass and slips a hand between her legs as she opens her mouth indignantly to protest further.

It's a matter of practice to ensure he doesn't scratch her, and he's had a lot of practice. The angle is difficult with her legs wrapped around his, so he takes it slow and careful, hardly caring for the way it twists his arm awkwardly.

She throws her head back with a little too much enthusiasm, hitting the glass hard. She winces and he stops, concerned if amused.

"Ah, fuck," she says, groaning in pain but laughing sheepishly through it, "look, that was your fault - I'm fine, don't _stop_ \- "

He grins into her neck and holds her steady as she grinds down onto his the heel of his hand, pain replaced by something far better. Her eyes drift closed and he's just starting to think that he's overdressed for this when -

"Commander, Operative Lawson wishes to speak with you in the briefing room."

Shepard's eyes snap open and the look of unbridled irritation on her face is truly spectacular. Shepard, ever patient Shepard, always making time for everyone and everything, looking ready to let a whole round off in the AI core. That's just for him.

"Really, EDI?" Her voice is strained. "Right now?"

Garrus doesn't move an inch, not convinced the moment is ruined quite yet. Shepard's fingers tighten behind his fringe, but she doesn't make to move either.

He could swear he hears EDI hesitate.

"Although you did not set exact parameters as to what constitutes a priority alert, the time sensitive nature of this matter - "

"Get to the point, EDI," Shepard says, not unkindly but a little shortly, and Garrus bites down on his laughter as she glares at him.

"There is only a small window before the intel Operative Lawson and I have retrieved becomes redundant."

Shepard tenses. "She found it?"

"If we are referring to the same thing, then yes."

"Shit." Shepard visibly stiffens before his eyes, miserably and thoroughly. The moment is gone, and he lowers her gently to the floor, one hand steadying her waist and the other carefully extracted from the warmth between her legs. She still holds onto his neck. "Tell her I'll be there in ten."

There's a brief silence, and if an AI can have an awkward silence, that's exactly what it is.

"Shepard, I - it is my understanding that organics find it invasive and uncomfortable to be disturbed during intimate activities -"

"Thanks, EDI," Shepard says loudly, "just give me a moment, okay?"

"Of course, Shepard. Logging you out."

"So," Garrus says, resigned but amused, "I suppose we'll have to resume our 'intimate activities' at a later date."

Shepard sighs and leans in to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. It feels very melancholy. "Hold that thought."

He nods, lets his hands drop. "Can do."

She's piecing herself together again, reassembling the Shepard that only he sees into Commander Shepard. "Can you be ready to go?" She touches the tips of her fingers to his mandible. "I wouldn't ask, but -"

"You never have to, Shepard."

"Might be nothing," she says, retrieving the towel and scrubbing it through her hair vigorously. "If it isn't, you might be in luck."

"In luck?"

"It won't be boring." She turns away to rummage through her drawers so he can't see her face, but her tone is flat even by human standards. "Might even be something to shoot."

This is it, he realizes. This is what she's been waiting for, the invisible countdown in the steady tension in her shoulders.

She smoothes down her top with a frown, runs her fingers through her still damp hair uselessly. There are a million miles between this Shepard and the Shepard who'd grinned up at him mere minutes ago.

"Shepard," he says slowly, "what are you looking for?"

She doesn't reply immediately, pulling her boots on and then rolling her shoulders. She looks up at him then, her expression weary and maybe even a little guilty. "I'm sorry, Garrus. I've been playing this one kind of close to the chest." She wraps her hand back around his neck and presses their foreheads together. He mirrors her, fingers weaving through her hair. "I wanted a fresh perspective, I guess. On whatever we found. Someone who wouldn't -" She hesitates, shakes her head slightly. "It might be nothing."

"Whatever you need." He leans into her with a touch more pressure, gentle but firm. "Does that shower of yours have a cold setting?"

That gets him a quiet laugh, subdued but genuine. "Knock yourself out."

She pulls back after a few long moments, Commander Shepard now firmly in place. Savior of the galaxy, scourge of the Collectors. "I'll let you know the situation."

It's easy then for him to snap back into his own professional posture, nodding at her sharply and straightening up. He watches her go with an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little longer to finish than I expected it to, thank you for sticking with me!

Garrus doesn't have time for his unease to fester into anything more substantial before he's called into the comm room, the methodical routine of clipping his armor into place as sobering as any cold shower. He takes it off more than he used to, lets himself take a moment here and there where he isn't expecting the worst in the safety of Shepard's cabin. When it's on, he doesn't allow himself that sort of oversight. He and Shepard may trade flirtatious back and forth remarks on a mission, but it's not the same.

Lawson's eyes flick lazily over him, eyebrows raising as Shepard acknowledges him with a distracted wave of her hand, absorbed in something on her omnitool. Looks like schematics, he notes. Something big. His gaze drifts back to Lawson, who folds her arms with a shake of the head.

"Really?" Miranda says incredulously, "him?"

Garrus is more intrigued than offended, familiar by now with Miranda's brashness and no longer inclined to mistake it for antagonism, but he folds his arms defensively nonetheless. "What about me?"

Miranda ignores him. "I should've guessed.”

Shepard doesn't look at either of them, tapping away on her omnitool. "What? Garrus knows me. We've worked together a long time."

Miranda's sigh is long and weary, but when she next speaks, she sounds more amused than annoyed. “You have an interesting definition of impartial.”

“I never said impartial, exactly,” Shepard says mildly, but still doesn’t lift her gaze. “Just a fresh pair of eyes. He’s got those, hasn’t he?”

Miranda sighs again, though her lips curve into something that might be persuaded to become a smile. She casts Garrus another sidelong look, a sweeping assessment that he’s guessing is more for show than anything. Posturing, he understands. He taps the side of his visor and flares his mandibles at her.

“And then some.”

That earns him a snort, and another shake of the head.

"I daresay he does. Can I assume you gave him an overview of the situation?"

"I, er -" Shepard's eyes meet his for a brief, sheepish moment, but Miranda misses it, raising her eyebrows expectantly at Garrus. "No. I got sidetracked." There's a faint flush high on her cheekbones, and he knows enough now about the minutiae of her reactions to read that one perfectly. He perhaps doesn't manage to keep his face completely impassive, but Miranda isn't half so good at reading him.

"Plucking baby krogan from sewers?" Miranda says, oblivious for once. "The life you lead, Shepard."

Shepard laughs tightly, attention focused once more on her omnitool. "It's a doozy, alright. EDI, could you bring the schematics up please?"

The display in the center of the table flickers to life with a hum, though Garrus’ eyes follow Shepard instead of the schematic. She passes a hand across her forehead and nods at Miranda.

“Lazarus station,” Lawson says without preamble, and Shepard rolls her shoulder slowly, gaze fixed on the holo. “I'm assuming you know the significance. Cerberus has a few space stations built to these specifications, but Lazarus represented the largest investment by far in terms of equipment and resources.” Miranda pauses, shoots Shepard a good-humored glance. “Staff too, I suppose.”

Shepard gives another tight laugh, but all Garrus can think about is where that put Shepard. Not staff, that's for sure. Equipment, maybe. The thought drains any humor from the situation. _Equipment. Resources._ Lawson isn't being intentionally dismissive, no doubt, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“The Illusive Man informed us shortly after leaving the station that it had been destroyed remotely, and until recently, we've had no reason to doubt him. Recent intel has led us to believe this might not be the case.”

“Makes sense,” Garrus says slowly, “destroying a significant investment when he can repurpose it isn't exactly his style.”

It's hard to miss Shepard's wince, slight as it is, though he keeps his gaze steady and gives no outward indication he’s aware of it. If Lawson catches it, she does much the same.

“No,” Lawson agrees, cool as ever. “Perhaps he thought its destruction would put Shepard at ease.”

“What makes you think he kept it?”

“EDI picked up something the last few times Cerberus attempted to remotely control her systems -”

That concerns him. “EDI’s getting hacked?”

Shepard grins; a full bodied one, this time. “She's got it covered, Garrus. No cause for alarm.”

“They’ve had no luck so far, and we've even managed to infiltrate some of their defenses -”

“I was designed by Cerberus specialists specifically for cyber warfare,” EDI says, and there's no mistaking the smugness in her tone, AI or no AI. “I was able to anticipate the manner of their attacks easily.”

“She's been bombarding him with data packets,” Shepard says, still grinning. She leans against the table, raising her eyebrows at him. “Joker’s personal files, so I'm told.”

“Really.” Garrus looks right back at her, and he's definitely failing at looking impassive this time. “I hear they're… extensive.”

“Anyway,” Lawson continues, determinedly ignoring Shepard’s chuckle, “I've been tracking down some recent Cerberus defectors who were able to provide more up to date intel without putting EDI at further risk, and we finally have a location.”

Shepard watches him with a steady gaze, faint echoes of her laughter still left in the soft edge to her otherwise unfaltering stare.

“So,” he says, not quite a question, but his meaning is clear enough.

“I want to know what he's up to,” Shepard says, which ought to satisfy him. They're dropped on backwater settlements for less, for the slightest glimpse into Cerberus’ movements. “And,” she adds, in concession to his continued silence, “Miranda's contacts seem to think it's only a matter of time before he actually _does_ blow it up. Daylight’s wasting.”

Garrus nods slowly. “Any intel on what he _is_ up to?”

“Probably nothing,” Miranda says, “it’s a very specialised station, I can’t imagine there’s much use for it beyond -” She hesitates, and suddenly Garrus _gets_ it. His gaze flicks back to Shepard, but she’s watching Miranda, forehead creasing with a slight frown. “- beyond Project Lazarus.”

“Makes you wonder,” Shepard murmurs, which prompts an irritated noise from Lawson.

“Believe me, they don’t have the resources, time _or_ expertise to repeat what we did.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Or a _reason_.”

“EDI picked up something else,” Shepard says, and Miranda purses her lips. “Batarian signal, pretty corrupted -”

“- and _unconfirmed_ -”

“Yeah, maybe.” Shepard shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. “Gist of it is,” she adds, spotting Garrus’ questioning look, “seems like a Cerberus defector contacted the Hegemony advising that there’s something on Lazarus that could be used to discredit me.”

Miranda folds her arms and taps her fingers agitatedly along her upper arm. “The entire message could be a fake, planted to get your attention. He wants you there, Shepard. He wants to lure you there and blow you up.”

“Entirely possible,” Shepard agrees. “Equally, I’ve got to surrender myself to to the Alliance at some point, and I’d rather not give the Hegemony any more ammunition than they already have.”

“Ammunition?”

There's a strangely reluctant silence that hangs after his question.

“Could be anything,” Lawson says grudgingly, “I had to gather everything there was on Shepard, everything I could get to make sure -” She cuts her sentence short with a half-laugh, almost embarrassed. “Well, I needed to know everything I could.”

“What are we talking,” Garrus says, “baby photos?” He casts a sideways look at Shepard. “Sealed military records?”

She grimaces. “I don’t know. I can’t think _what_ \- but there’s bound to be something about Elysium they could twist to make Aratoht seem personal. Never read the damn thing, if I’m honest.” She looks to Miranda, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Did you actually have baby photos? I was cute, right?”

“Adorable,” Miranda says dryly, and gestures back at the holo. “So, are we doing this? Walking right into what is probably a trap?”

“We’re doing this,” Shepard says firmly, and looks up at Garrus from beneath her eyelashes. “You in?”

She’s still thrumming with the same nervous energy she was radiating in her cabin, but it’s sharp and focused and steady as only she can be.

“You know it,” he says.

 

-

 

Shepard's right: he knows her. He knows her in a bone deep way that can't be quantified by _they've worked together before_ or _he knew her when she was a spectre_ or even _I hear they're sleeping together now_ . He knew her when she was just an Alliance marine - _just,_ as if Shepard has ever _just_ been anything - with a head full of unexplained visions and no one willing to listen. He was there when the Council granted her spectre status, he was there when they took down Saren, and he was there when her suit failed in the emptiness above Alchera. He was there to mourn her, and improbably, he was there when she came _back,_ but none of this is how he _knows_ her, precisely.

Miranda might know every last inch of Shepard's sinewy combination of organic tissue and synthetic supplement - though, well, he's catching up on that score, in his own fashion - and she might have had every last detail of Shepard's childhood down pat, every classified military record unlocked and poured over, but people aren't so simple as the sum of their parts, Shepard least of all.

Miranda probably knows the details of Ilos better than Garrus, genetically perfect memory and flawless recall serving her admirably, probably remembers the finer points of their discussion with Vigil better than even Liara. But Garrus remembers the things that wouldn't ever make it to a report, things that don't have a place in any of the sections of Shepard's meticulous template, and wouldn't interest Hackett even if they did.

Shepard was different then, there's no two ways about it. So was he. Ilos was their first, the first time they dropped into something intentionally with the knowledge it was far more likely they'd die than succeed. She caught his eye in the cargo hold as they grabbed their weapons, and there it was: a good-humored grimace, a _what have we got ourselves into now_. That was as close as he ever saw her to being nervous, a quick flash of something between the certainty. She was as steady as she ever was once they were in the Mako.

This is what he sees in the shuttle that Miranda misses; Shepard meets his gaze from where she's seated opposite and for a moment, she lets him see her apprehension. Then, she drops her gaze to the floor, and he's left wondering if she ever really meant for him to catch it.

There's always a stillness about Shepard before any mission, no matter the stakes. She's all business from the moment she steps on the shuttle, radiating the kind of focused professionalism the turian in him finds impressive. As he's tried explaining to her in the past, the turian military can only demand so much from their soldiers whilst on duty because off duty they demand so much less, and the general belief is that this is the only way to achieve such a result. Shepard contradicts this so completely that he suspects most turians would find it horrifying rather than fascinating.

She takes more downtime now than he's ever seen her - most of which he's privy to - but even now, with comparatively little to do, she doesn't stop to catch her breath, not really. A lot of the reasons he enjoys their time together are selfish, and he's okay with that, but a lot of them aren't so selfish, and that includes the fact that he can actually get her to _stop_ now and then, if only for a short while.

It's different, too, to the way she stops for other things. When Jacob and Kasumi wave her in on a card game in the lounge she joins them with a genuine enthusiasm, but not before a series of conflicted expressions flutter across her face as she weighs up her responsibilities against the offer of some time off. Even then, he wonders if she doesn't agree partly because it's good for morale or team building or any other myriad of reasons that don't come entirely under the concept of ‘off duty.’

With Garrus, she's all in. He never approaches her when it would conflict with anything actually important, but sometimes, when he sees her buried under a mountain of datapads he's sure are all mildly crucial, he throws that kind of consideration to the winds.

 _You need a break_ , he says, and she doesn't frown or sigh or even let out a resigned chuckle. The pad is out her hands without a moment's hesitation, and she's looking at him with a grin that says he's won.

 _You're absolutely right_ , she says. He slides the stack of datapads across the table, out of her reach. She lets him.

Point is, Shepard doesn't blow off steam. She doesn't spar with her crewmates in the hold, and she doesn't _spar_ with them in her bed, either. They talked a lot about easing tension, but in the end, he's not so sure. What they're doing, though he framed it initially as a very turian response, isn't turian at all. You take someone to bed because you need the relief and it doesn't really mean anything. If you do it twice, okay. Three times?  More than that? Even turian personal freedom only goes so far before it becomes an operational issue.

The fact is, Shepard is the most important person in his life. She's the best friend he's got in this fucked up galaxy, and he shares her bed, and where he used to think those were very separate labels, now he's not so sure. He does know he is increasingly unwilling to give up either, and he thinks maybe she is, too.

If Omega taught him anything, it's that blurring the line between running a tight ship and being personally involved with your crew can be devastating if it fails. That thinking you know someone is no guarantee, that trust doesn't necessarily beget trust. If Shepard taught him anything, it's that it's always worth a shot anyway. He still believes that, even after everything.

 _Impartial_ , Miranda had scoffed, as if it was a bad thing. _He knows me_ , Shepard had said.

He isn’t, and he does. That’s why he’s here.

 

-

 

He doesn’t know quite what he expected Lazarus station to be like, but apparently it’s not this. The general Cerberus decor is much the same as every other base he’s been to; it’s totally unremarkable. Nothing to signal that they did the impossible here, that somewhere along these empty corridors Shepard lived where she should have died. It’s a strange feeling to think it was here all along; when he walked out on C-Sec, made his way to Omega. If he’d _known_ Shepard was lying unconscious but steadily improving, if he’d known she was safe somewhere, however unsavory, being carefully nurtured and watched and rebuilt -

\- but of course, he didn’t know. It’s pointless to speculate. And maybe, if he tells himself that enough, his subconscious will even listen.

They drop in by Kodiak, at a airlock Miranda identified as being their best chance at getting in unnoticed. There are two mechs repairing a terminal and nothing else, easily dispatched, and an encouraging start.

“Well,” Shepard says at length, “that answers our first question.” She nudges one of the mechs with her foot as Miranda takes over the terminal. Garrus keeps his rifle trained on the door at the far end of the hangar. “Someone’s operating out of this thing. Rogue mechs don’t repair life support systems.”

Miranda frowns. “Maybe. Similar systems to when I was based here, but it doesn’t recognize me.”

“Did we really think it would?”

“No.” Miranda clips a new heat sink into her pistol. “But it confirms that Cerberus is here - or was, at least. I guess we'll see if they stuck around.”

“Great,” Shepard mutters, and makes a vague gesture at the door. Garrus and Miranda snap into position, one at end side, as Shepard stands ready to open it. “We head to medical and hope we don’t find too much trouble on the way.”

The corridors and rooms they methodically check as they move steadily onwards are empty, and more than that, they’ve clearly been unused for some time. This doesn't entirely contradict their hypothesis: it's a big station, and the section they arrived is at the opposite end to many of the more useful amenities. Even when the station was in full flow under Miranda's command it was never completely full, she explained. The nature of their work wasn't entirely a secret within Cerberus, but they certainly played it close to their chest. Not only that, but reviving Shepard wasn't the sort of task that required a large number of personnel. A large amount of funding, perhaps, but the number of people directly involved was relatively small.

They travel a good while before they meet another batch of mechs, Shepard waving them into cover before they draw their attention. Miranda presses herself into a doorway whilst Garrus heads automatically for the storage crate Shepard crouches behind, already thumbing at his visor.

“Five,” he mutters, “and we've got the jump.”

Shepard flicks the display of her Kuwashii on, Widow at the ready. “Take ‘em out quick, we might avoid detection a bit longer. Any security cams?”

He scans the passage. “None.”

Shepard waves a hand signal at Miranda indicating she stay where she is before positioning her rifle as she squints over the top of the crate. “Too far for biotics,” she says, “looks like this one's on us.”

“No problem,” he drawls, “two for you, three for me.”

“Excuse me, _three_ for you?”

He gestures at her Widow carelessly. “Hell of a recoil on that thing, isn't there?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you wanna swap?”

He considers this. “Yeah.”

“Too bad.” Her grin is wolfish. “It'd snap your arm off.”

Well, she's not wrong.

It's another thing she can thank Cerberus for, and he's fairly sure it is _thanking_ she'd be doing in this case: Shepard has only ever enjoyed her augmented strength and endurance - come to think of it, so has he - and if it means there's a little more circuitry tucked away under her skin and muscle, she accepted that cheerfully enough. He's in the same boat in his own, smaller way; the slight, synthetic click he hears sometimes when he moves his mandibles, the gentle whir barely perceptible to anyone else. He never minded getting the upgrade; it was what it stood for that made him uneasy. He saw the same ill-fitting feeling on Shepard's face sometimes when she absently traced the lines of the scars along her cheeks. They're gone now, but he doubts that lets her forget.

“Like I said,” he says smoothly, “that's three for me.”

Shepard snorts, and they lean around their respective edges of the crate with the kind of synchronised coordination that he hasn't figured out how to duplicate with anyone else. Of course, since she's been back, he's stopped trying.

Of the mechs that comprise his half of their improvised shooting range, he takes out the one furthest away first. Draws his breath, holds steady, and lands an almost perfect headshot. A little to the left if you're inclined to nitpick, which he is. The second mech turns to follow the noise, presenting Garrus obligingly with the back of its mechanical head. In the same breath, he readjusts, lands a second headshot. This one is perfect.

His visor tells him Shepard has done the same with her allocated mechs, and he shifts again to focus on the last remaining one as he hears her exhale. Three for him, even if she did give the last one away. She only had two shots left in her clip and it makes sense to let him finish the job. Still, it's not as if he'd pass up the chance to rib her, not when he can still sense a nervous energy radiating from her, even amidst her usual unwavering battle steadiness. He brushes imaginary dust from his rifle.

“How's that recoil working out for you? Not slowing you down, I hope.”

Her smirk isn't as full as it usually is, but it's there. “Dream on, Vakarian.”

“Just let me know if I'm going too fast for you.”

Shepard shakes her head with a grin, but lets the empty space where her suggestive reply would normally be hang open, filling it only with the click of her thermal clip.

Miranda presses her lips together in that way she has that could signal amusement or frustration, he's never quite sure which. She strides ahead of them, movement turned purposeful. “My office is ahead,” she says, lowering her pistol as she jerks her head towards the door behind two of the downed mechs.

Shepard nods, and seems to give the mechs a second sweep with her kuwashii to satisfy herself.  “Let’s go.”

Garrus falls into place behind her.

 

-

 

The room they enter is unnervingly familiar to him, though from a very unexpected source. A board hangs on one wall, covered in photos, notes, scraps of paper with things scrawled across them. The desk in one corner is piled high with files and datapads, more scribbled notes, and one corner has an extensive array of ring shaped coffee stains. Shepard's desk in the Loft sports a similar pattern.

Though it is for the most part immaculately organized - he wouldn't expect anything less from Lawson - there is still a haphazard element to it that reminds him of some of the most extensive investigations he'd been involved with at C-Sec, those with late nights and early starts and more pieces to an elaborate puzzle than you could ever hope to find a place for.

The investigation this time being Shepard.

He takes a few steps closer to the board, singling out a photo near the bottom. It's Shepard, looking much younger than he's ever known her, though still in Alliance uniform. Before the Blitz too, by the lack of the scar across her eyebrow. To the left, Shepard as he used to know her: first human Spectre and decorated Alliance officer. It looks like it was taken from some publicity footage right after the Council officially named her as the latest Spectre. The board is filled similarly as he glances over the rest: Shepard's life laid bare in photographic form.

“And I thought the Shadow Broker's lair was creepy,” he says, dragging his eyes away from the board to look at the real Shepard, finding her expression hard to decipher.

“You were very thorough,” is all she says, and it sounds hollow to Garrus’ ears though Miranda laughs quietly.

“Well, I had to be.”

Whilst not reticent about her past, exactly, Shepard is still not terribly forthcoming about it. It's just not something they talk about. The basics of Shepard's military history is public knowledge, and Garrus was there for some of the most notable parts. He's never been unduly curious before, but now that's it's here in front of him -

Shepard moves to stand beside him and tugs the  photo he'd been looking at loose from the board, a younger Shepard in her uniform looking flatly at the camera even as she holds her shoulders straight and proud.

“Haven't seen this in years,” she says finally, letting a smile play on her lips for a few moments. “My mom took this the day I enlisted. How did you -”

“Doctor T’soni, I believe. She had a lot of personal files that were incredibly useful.”

Garrus peers curiously over her shoulder. He knows, of course, that Shepard didn't spring out the womb fully formed as the woman he knows now, sniper rifle in hand and N7 insignia on her chest, but imagining her as having ever been anything other than Commander Shepard is strangely hard to do.

“You look… grumpy,” he offers, mandibles twitching.

“I was eighteen, Garrus. I didn't want my mom fussing over me and taking my picture.” She sounds a little wistful. “Thought I knew everything.”

His parents have the exact same photo of him, somewhere.

“We showed them to you,” Miranda says, responding to the unasked question. “Once you were mostly finished healing, we were able to get you to remain conscious for short periods of time, and the photos triggered emotional responses in your brain we could read. It's how I knew you were still in there, somewhere.”

If Shepard finds this phrasing disturbing - which Garrus definitely _does_ \- she doesn’t show it. “I don't remember that.”

“I don't suppose you would, you weren't able to process new memories at the time. I’m not sure you were fully _awake_ , really. You couldn’t perform any voluntary movements.” Miranda folds her arms and taps her fingers on her elbow thoughtfully. “Actually, I'm surprised you remember your first few hours awake so clearly, we fully expected you wouldn’t be able to -”

At this, she seems to take note of Garrus’ unimpressed expression, and declines to finish the sentence. Shepard just frowns slightly, brushes her thumb over her eighteen year old face as if it's as foreign to her as it is to Garrus.

“That one made you happy,” Miranda adds, before turning away awkwardly and busying herself at the desk instead.

Shepard doesn’t acknowledge that if she does hear it, looking warily instead at a collection of photos in the top right hand corner. If this was C-Sec, it would be the ‘known associates’ section - Garrus can see a photo of Tali, Wrex, and even Ash - which seems to be what Shepard is looking at with a kind of guarded sadness. He flexes his fingers irritably; what responses were they hoping _that_ photo would prompt? What memories were they trying to force on her unconscious mind? Nothing good, knowing Shepard. He can see echoes of them in her face right now.

Miranda has said over and over that her objective was clear: only the real Shepard would do, anything else was a failure. Was this how they tested her moral integrity, showing her photos of dead crew members and ticking the boxes for remorse and regret?

He very suddenly has an intense urge to blow this entire place to hell.

He uncurls his fists, and taps instead at the photo of him to the right, drawing her attention away. He looks so _horribly_ young, it's almost funny. Surely that can't have been a mere three years ago.

“And the emotional response to this one?” he says, flashing her a grin. “Jealousy? Envy of my superior skills?”

Shepard turns to look at him, the corner of her mouth curling upwards. “Not the words I would use.” Her words could almost be teasing, but there’s also something solemn about them that causes him pause.

He meets her eyes and holds her gaze steadily for a moment. “No?”

She seems to start answering but thinks better of it, and just lets out a quiet chuckle as she sticks her enlistment photo back on the board. Her fingers linger for a few seconds before she lets her hand drop.

“Nothing missing as far as I can tell,” Miranda says from across the room, “doesn’t look like anything was disturbed in here, anyway.”

“Then we head to medical,” Shepard says, taking a businesslike step away from the wall. Miranda shoots her a curious look, but places the datapad she’s holding back on the desk and heads out the door.

“It’s not far.”

Shepard pulls her rifle from her back purposefully, but stays standing in front of the board for a few long seconds. Enough that Garrus lets himself press his fingers gently to her forearm. He doesn't quite know what he's offering. Just that he knows her. Just that he's here.

“Shepard,” he says simply.

She sighs, and briefly places her hand on top of his in acknowledgment of the gesture.

“Let’s just get moving,” she says, “I’ve spent too damn long on this station already.”

 

-

 

Medical isn't far and they reach it without further disruption, which makes Garrus distinctly uneasy. They joke about needing things to shoot, but he _really_ does need something to shoot right now: a mech, a whole corridor of mechs, the Illusive Man himself, come to that. He's feeling even less well disposed towards that slimy bastard than usual, strangely enough.

Does that make him a hypocrite? That he doesn't regret a single thing that led to Shepard's timely resurrection, but would still shoot the man who made it all possible for putting those very steps into motion?

“I don't like this, Shepard,” he murmurs, as Miranda works on the door with her omnitool. “No batarians, no Cerberus… never thought I'd be complaining about that, but something isn't right.”

She nods tersely. “I'm with you there, Garrus. I -”

“Got it,” Miranda says, and they rise from their positions to follow her through the door, rifle still trained on the empty corridor behind them.

As the door clicks closed Shepard takes a wary look around the room they're now in, and Garrus makes his own sweeping assessment. Where Miranda's office was an unnerving study of Shepard’s life, intense but undeniably created with care and attention, this room is impersonal and sterile, a gray and silver medbay that could be anywhere. The only thing that really distinguishes it is the presence of only one bed, which he finds his gaze lingering on. There's an alarming amount of apparatus surrounding it, vast tangles of tubes and wires. He wants to look away, to stop visualizing the scene that must have been here for near enough two years, but he doesn’t. He owes Shepard that.

“I don't remember this.” Shepard sounds weary, her eyes flickering over the array of tubes as she lowers her rifle.

“You woke up in the rehabilitation center upstairs, this was where a lot of the reconstruction took place.” Miranda looks something close to uncomfortable for the first time.

“Reconstruction,” Shepard echoes, but shakes her head with a grim little bark of laughter. “In here?”

“Some of it.” Miranda indicates the door at the other side of the room. “Through there is the stasis chamber.”

“Any sign of use?”

“Possibly,” Miranda says, casting her own shrewd gaze across the worktops. “We should check the rest of the complex.”

 _Still no Cerberus_ , Garrus thinks, and Shepard catches his eye with a matching expression of unease. “Alright,” she says, and if Garrus stays closer behind her than usual, she doesn’t comment on it.

The door opens up into another sterile corridor, empty and starkly white. They open each door as they pass, but don’t necessarily enter, finding them empty of both Cerberus and of anything significant. In each, Miranda frowns, confirming that things have been taken but that she was never familiar enough with their contents to identify exactly what. From what little she can guess at, it’s nothing particularly specialized, just expensive medical equipment. Salvage doesn’t mesh all that well with Garrus’ understanding of the Illusive Man’s way of operating, but he can’t argue that you might want some return after pouring all that money into something, given your greatest asset - well, told you to essentially go fuck yourself and walked off with your best ship.

The door to the stasis chamber is locked, but Garrus overrides it in a few minutes as Miranda and Shepard comb the supply closet for usable medigel, and so he takes point as they enter it, rifle raised.

It’s a large room, brightly lit with blue-tinged light, with clear white tiles on the floor and white walls. He hears Shepard approach on his right, and falls back into place behind her as she walks slowly towards the pod in the center of the room.

The base is white and reaches about waist height on Shepard, at which point there is a curved, glass dome about the size of a human bed. There’s something inside, though he can’t make it out for the blue glare of the lights, reflecting off every curve and angle. He edges forward and starts to slowly distinguish the vague outline of something humanoid, and reaches out to Shepard as they get nearer.

“Shepard - “ He begins, stopping abruptly when the glare fades as he draws closer, and he stares through the glass as a partially preserved human body. The flesh hasn’t wasted away quite yet, though it’s looking drawn and nightmarish already. He sweeps it visually starting with the feet, looking for signs of trauma. There are no open wounds, a feature ragged sutures across the torso, another suture across the hairline, and the hair -

\- is _red_ , spread limply on the white surface below, and for one horrifying moment, he looks at it and sees Shepard. Shepard half dead and wasting away after Alchera, Shepard being _reconstructed_ -

But it’s not her. The jaw is too long, the brow sits lower, even the way the shoulders slope isn’t quite right. Where time had slowed to a panicked crawl, he now inhales with a rush and feels the seconds pass at their usual speed, lets his fingers grip his gun tighter. He decides in an instant both that it can’t possibly be her, and that he doesn’t care even if it is.

He turns to look at Shepard, and sees her frozen in place in horror. Her thought process is only too clear to him, and shows no sign of progressing the way his had. It’s what she feared, and it’s what she sees in front of her.

“Shepard,” he repeats sharply, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. It occurs to him that although Shepard is proficient at creating dead bodies, she’s not so good at reading them. It wouldn’t be enough to tell her it isn’t her, he can see that by the horrified conviction in her face. So he straightens his back, lowers his gun, and lets the Garrus she knew three years ago take over. It’s been a while, but she used to look to him for this.

“Human female,” he says dispassionately, “around twenty years of age, time of death at least several weeks ago but potentially as long as several months. Stasis chamber has affected decomposition.” Shepard’s eyes snap to him in alarm. “Cause of death unclear.”

Shepard closes her eyes, and Garrus counts five seconds in the heavy silence before she opens them again. “The wounds,” she says eventually, her voice hoarse, “were any post-mortem?”

Garrus steps closer, sees Shepard flinch as he does so and refuses to let himself do the same. “Yes.”

“All surgical?”

“As far as I can tell.”

Shepard takes a very deliberate breath. “But why the stasis chamber? What were they -”

An electronic voice cuts across them, all the more startling for the muffled quiet of the stasis chamber.

“ _This station has been set to self destruct in ten minutes. Employees are advised to proceed to their nearest evacuation point as soon as possible. Please remain calm and do not collect any personal belongings on the way. This station has been set to self destruct in nine minutes and fifty seconds_ -”

Shepard swears under her breath and turns on her heel to face Miranda.

“Shepard, the shuttle -”

“Too far. Where's the nearest evacuation point?”

“Five minutes, I think, if the pods are still all there -”

“Well, here's hoping,” Shepard mutters, and with a visible effort she wrenches herself away from the body with one last conflicted look. “Let's make this quick.”

There's no time to mull over the situation, Garrus just falls into place and follows, rifle raised and senses alert. The timing can't be coincidental, but whether it's a trap or not - he doesn’t allow himself to start trying to puzzle that one through. Get out, stay alive, then there's time to think.

Miranda keeps a brisk pace, omnitool open and dropping her gaze to consult the schematics at every junction they meet. No room for error. No time -

“ _\- do not collect any personal belongings on the way. This station has been set to self destruct in four minutes and thirty seconds -_ ”

“We get it,” Shepard grits out, “Miranda, tell me we're close.”

“Not far now.”

They make it, pods thankfully undisturbed and functional, with three minutes to spare. Miranda lets her head fall back against the seat with a sigh, but Garrus doesn't let himself relax. It's not over yet.

He activates the virtual window as the pod makes its desperate, careering path away from the station, their view of it spinning in and out of view as they roll. Two minutes. They're far enough away now that he is confident they won't feel the blast, not with the dampeners in the pod and the distance they've made.

Twenty seconds.

Shepard watches out the window - it’s not actual glass but the electronic image is still something she can see for herself, that she can trust, never taking her eyes off the station as the self destruct finally takes effect. It's an understated affair, methodically done and incredibly efficient. As the last section breaks apart, she meets Garrus’ eyes.

He sees her so clearly, even in the dimly lit glow of the pod where the only light is from the control panels, even with the kuwashii obscuring one eye and throwing half her face into shadow. Not Commander Shepard, not the vanquisher of the Collectors, not the Council Spectre - just her. Her fears and hopes and the way she looks when she's drinking her coffee in the morning, two fingers looped through the handle and the smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth. The horror on her face when she walked into the stasis chamber and the lingering unease it has left across her brow. He sees it all.

This time, she lets him.

Then, she closes her eyes and holds a finger to her earpiece.

“Normandy,” she says, “this is Shepard, do you copy?”

He hears the answer heavy through his own commlink, Joker’s voice distorted with static. Shepard's instinct to keep them near was a good one.

He tries to take comfort in the crumbling wreckage of Lazarus station, still visible through the virtual window display, but it's all too eerily reminiscent of the view over Alchera. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed on Shepard, on the reality that she's in a pod, this time, watching the station disperse through the window with him at her side.

And somehow, thought nothing else about this felt right, he's exactly where he's meant to be.

 

-

 

Miranda wants to debrief immediately when they’re back onboard, he can tell, but takes one look at the exhaustion on Shepard's face and seems to think better of it.

“It's been a long day,” she says instead, not without an air of reluctance, and Shepard makes a weak attempt at a chuckle. “I’m not sure that answered any of our questions, actually.”

“It answered some,” Shepard says, but it’s clear from her tone she’s not about to elaborate. “Thanks, Miranda. Wouldn’t have found it at all if it wasn’t for you.”

Miranda nods as she holds her gaze for a few moments, something passing between them that Garrus can’t read. “I hope they were the ones you needed.”

“Yeah,” Shepard says, a little wearily. “We’ll catch up later.”

“Of course, Shepard.”

Garrus follows her into the elevator in the second time in far too few hours, and with considerably less levity. No playful glances this time.

He pitches his question low and serious. “Want some company?”

She shifts from one foot to the other, stretching her neck out as she does so. “I’m not sure I’ll be very good company, Garrus.”

“Not what I asked,” he says, and she doesn’t turn to face him, but does smile at the wall of the elevator.

“Sure,” she says, “I could use it.”

 

-

 

Garrus hadn't spent a lot of time in Shepard's cabin before the Omega relay: he knew enough to be vaguely envious as he wedged himself uncomfortably in his bunk in the crew quarters, enough that he knew where the controls for the music were. He hadn't much need to be up there; it was her space, and there plenty of other places they could socialise. It's not that every single visit since has been just to facilitate sex, but it's certainly been on the cards every time, and, well - 

\- and here they are, taking off their armor with no sexual undertones whatsoever, Shepard's expression tired and drawn, and he's nervous all over again.

She runs a hand through her hair and heads to the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door as she splashes water onto her face. Garrus sits himself down on the edge of her bed, watching her through the glass above her desk. She does look tired, and she does look drained, but the look she gives her reflection in the mirror is neither of those things. It's all steely determination. He hears her sigh from across the room before she shuffles down the steps to the bed area. He pats the space next to him, and she sits obediently, hunched over with her elbows on her knees.

She's pulled her hair back again into a neater, tighter bun, smaller and less substantial than the one she used to sport before Alchera, but enough that it's achingly familiar. It's been long enough to do that for weeks now, but for whatever reason, she's kept it loose until recently. He'd make a guess at why if he wasn't so reluctant to accept the conclusion.

“So,” he says, and she blinks up at him as if surprised to find him still there. “Hell of a day.”

A ghost of a smile plays at her mouth. “Hell of a day,” she agrees, and pauses for a moment, running her thumb thoughtfully over her bottom lip. “I'm thinking we beat the batarians there.”

“That's what I've been thinking. The self destruct was set to let you get a good look, but not _too_ good a look -”

“Dirtiest trick in the book,” Shepard says, disgusted. “I didn't think it was his style, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised by now.”

“I don't see what he hoped to gain from it. The Hegemony are already saying you're an imposter, a quick glance at a dead body isn't going to add much more to that story.” Garrus shakes his head. “All that trouble, just to strengthen their conviction a little? They already want your blood.”

“Maybe it wasn't him. Could be defectors looking to tarnish Cerberus’ reputation more.”

“But to batarians? I don't think they need convincing.” Garrus watches her clench and unclench her fists. “I think Miranda was right, at least partly. The batarian transmission was real, but it was still a plant. I think he always hoped you'd make it first.”

“Why?” Shepard’s voice is scornful. “Just to try to mess with me?”

His reply is quiet. “Didn't it?”

She buries her head in her hands, and breathes a frustrated sigh. “Yeah.”

“He's got nothing, Shepard. He's resorting to sloppy scare tactics because he's got nothing else.”

She doesn't answer for a few moments, still staring at her feet. “I was supposed to think it was me.”

“Yes.”

“I did, Garrus.” She lifts her head and looks at him, the fear as clear as it was in the pod. “For a moment, I did.”

“I know.”

“It could've been me.”

“Shepard, it _wasn't_.”

“It could've been me,” she repeats, “just because all he could rustle up on Lazarus was some poor bastard in over their head doesn't mean there isn't another room somewhere with another dead woman whose face I'm walking around wearing.”

“Stop that,” he says sharply, but she shakes her head.

“What have I got to say it isn't true, except for Miranda's word? Not that I doubt her honesty, but if she thinks Cerberus wouldn't manipulate her like everyone else -”

“Alright,” Garrus says, harshly enough that she looks up at him. If she wants to play this game, then they'll play. “Say it's all true, say you're not really Shepard. Say you never fought in the Blitz, never served with Anderson, never defeated Saren or saved the Citadel.”

She keeps his gaze, though her expression is pained. “It's possible.”

“What difference does it make?”

She looks at him as if he's gone mad. “What _difference_ \- Garrus, I'm not _me_ , I'm not who everyone thinks I am -”

“You still stopped the Collectors. You still saved those colonies. You still stopped the Reaper invasion at Aratoht.” He softens his tone a little. “You still showed up on Omega with impeccable timing.”

She’s startled into a smile. “Yeah?”

“You were there for me,” he says, “you were there when it counted, and you're still the best damn friend I've got, Shepard. Nothing changes that.”

“But I'm not who you knew,” she says, voice strained. “I'm not the same person you fought with.”

“Neither am I.”

“Well, yeah, but it's a bit different, Garrus.”

“I don't care,” he says honestly, “I mean, I've thought about it, and I just - don't care.”

“What?”

He reaches for her hand and finds it, fumbles the movement a little but wraps his fingers around hers. “I thought it was you, too. Just for a moment. And it felt like it should matter, like it should change _something_ , but it didn't. You're still you. You're still our best shot against the Reapers. You're still the person I -” He loses his momentum a little, disarmed by the slack-jawed disbelief of her expression. “What, you thought the only reason I stuck around was because I was convinced you were the same person?"

She blinks at him. "I - well, yeah?"

"For the record, I absolutely do think you're the same person even if I can never prove it, but that wouldn't have made any difference if you'd been - if you'd been - well, I like you fine the way you are,” he finishes awkwardly, looking down at their intertwined hands. “Whichever version of you it is. I don't care.”

She rubs her thumb across the back of his hand. “And what if I'm just a copy? A hi-tech clone? What if there's another Shepard walking around somewhere?”

He smirks at her, keen to lift the heavy sincerity from the situation, and sensing she could use the levity. “Well,” he says, “it's a common fantasy…”

Shepard looks briefly bewildered, but breaks almost immediately into a genuine chuckle.

“Right,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I'll bear that in mind.” She reaches up slightly to kiss him on the mandible, the lingering smile on her lips proof that he'd judged it correctly. “But seriously, Garrus, if I'm - if there's -”

“You're you. If there _are_ others, then they're the cheap copies, not you. I _know_ you, Shepard.”

“You do,” she says quietly, “it's why I wanted you there.”

“I know.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, the hum of the fish tank a gentle constant in the background.

“And you’re right,” she says slowly, “it doesn't make a difference. No one else was volunteering to stop the Collectors. No one's tripping over themselves to stop the Reapers, either. I'm in the best position to make it happen, and I've got to do it right.”

Garrus doesn't like where this is going. “Shepard -”

“I have to finish what we started on Ilos, I owe it to this weird and wonderful galaxy to give a damn, even if no one else does. It’s my responsibility. I can't escape my decisions, even if they were never really mine.” She shakes her head. “On Tuchanka, I didn't even think about whether or not it was _me_ who destroyed that cure on Virmire, I wasn't about to get metaphysical about it when all I could do was feel responsible.”

“Virmire was necessary.”

“I know that, but I'm still responsible. I have to live with my decisions, and I have to do the right thing by them. Lazarus was the last loose end, and even if I didn't get the answers I wanted, I got this one. I have to do it right.”

She's not finished, so he stays silent, focusing on the points where their fingers curl around each other and the resolve in her expression.

“I'm responsible for Bahak,” she continues quietly, but her voice is steady and certain. “I owe everyone an explanation.”

He sighs. “They won't thank you for it.”

“They never do, Garrus,” she says with a faint smile. “But I've got to do it right anyway.”

He nods at his feet. “So they put you on trial. For saving the galaxy. _Again_. And they talk it over and over and ignore the facts right in front of their faces, and talk some more, and -”

“I hate bureaucracy as much as you so, but if I go through the right channels, we’ll have a hell of a lot more support when it counts. I'll fill their forms in if that's what it takes.”

He can't keep the frustration from his voice. “And then?”

She grins, letting go of his hand and framing his head with her palms.

“And then,” she says, “you'd better believe the first thing I'm doing is finding you. Couldn't do it without you, Garrus.”

“As much as I enjoy the ego massage, I think we both know -”

“I couldn't,” she repeats firmly, “do it without you. And more to the point, I wouldn't want to.”

“And you'll never have to.” He holds her wrists and presses his forehead to hers, wanting to make his point abundantly clear. He holds them both still for a few moments, and lets himself feel the emotion he's been fighting for weeks, now. He'll miss her. He's done enough of that for a lifetime already. She's his closest friend, and somehow more than that, and his life will be immeasurably poorer for her absence, however temporary.

“As if I'd let you take all the credit,” he adds, willing his voice to stay playful.

“As if,’ she agrees, taking his obvious bait and letting the seriousness of the mood lift a little. She pauses. “That mech was mine. I went easy on you.”

“Whatever you say,” he says, and then they’re grinning again.

He won’t ask how long they have. He’ll save that for tomorrow.

“Wanna stay in my uncomfortable human bed?” she asks, the corners of her eyes creasing with amusement.

“I, uh. I never called it that.”

“Didn’t have to. You wake up every morning like you don’t remember how your arms and legs work.”

Garrus concedes defeat with an embarrassed chuckle. “Right.”

She brushes a thumb across his colony markings. “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t be good company.”

“Go to sleep, Shepard,” is all he says, and she grins lazily as she stretches out across the bed, feet on her pillow and head by his lap. Her hair fans out around her in a red halo as she tugs her bun loose, at once exactly like the body onboard Lazarus and yet nothing like it at all. He runs his fingers through it as her eyes flutter closed.

“Hey, Garrus?” she says, not opening her eyes. “if you hadn't been there, it might’ve worked.”

"Guess you'd better keep me around.”

“That's the plan,” she says, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “You game?”

She could be asking him if he wants dealt in on Skyllian Five, or if he's up for cleaning up some Eclipse mercs planetside. He fairly sure it's a little more complicated than that, though the answer is just as simple.

“You never have to ask, Shepard.”


End file.
